In The Bleak Midwinter
by Fortitudine
Summary: Pre-series. A drifting cowpoke and an elderly priest keep the vigil of Christmas together.


**In The Bleak Midwinter**

 _In the bleak mid-winter  
Frosty wind made moan,  
Earth stood hard as iron,  
Water like a stone;  
Snow had fallen, snow on snow,  
Snow on snow,  
In the bleak mid-winter  
Long ago._

St. Martin's was new, as new and as raw as the trail town around it. No soaring towers or flying buttresses lent it grace, only bare board walls and a shingle roof, already warping, topped by a heavy wooden cross. It shared a straggling street with two saloons, a livery, and a handful of shabby houses. The boardwalk ended where the churchyard began.

But a small clean plaster Christ had been installed in the forecourt, and Father Benedictus saw to it that the inscription underneath was re-painted as needed, picked out in white to proclaim the tender words of Matthew to the weary and the struggling.

The day before Christmas he held a service, brightened by a multitude of candles and a solo from a sweet-voiced local lad who atoned for habitual iniquity by singing at St. Martin's. It was a fine song though there were few to hear it.

The sexton went down the aisles, extinguishing the candles. Father Benedictus watched the little church growing steadily darker, and thought of many things. So preoccupied was he that the sexton had to speak to him twice.

"I'm sorry, Josef. What did you say?"

"It is a drover, Father." The sexton dropped his voice. "He sleeps."

"I did not realize my sermon was so dull," Father Benedictus said wryly, then, seeing that Josef did not catch the joke, he went quietly back to the last row of pews.

"He has no place here," Josef huffed, and was about to poke at the sleeping man when the pastor put up a cautioning hand.

"I don't know about that."

Josef hesitated. Father Benedictus was a Frenchman, but he was a priest, and Josef's respect for the cloth always won out over native prejudice.

The priest looked down at the figure in the pew. A dirty black hat hid most of the drover's face and a ratty sheepskin coat was tugged up around his shoulders. He lay sprawled in the deep, boneless oblivion of the very young or the very tired.

Outside the snow drove tiny particles through the cracks around the door. Small drifts lay across the streets and piled up against buildings. Snow for Christmas was fitting, but this had a hard sharp wind behind it, and the fortunate and the wise were safe indoors. Even the saloons were closing early, their usual customers either already seasonably intoxicated or unwilling to venture forth into the cold.

"I am thinking of keeping the church open this night. Wait – " Father Benedictus lowered his voice. "What good is it if we only say 'come unto Me, all you who are weary and heavy-laden,' like this young man, and do nothing to welcome him? Words without deeds reap no reward in Heaven, Josef."

The sexton grumbled.

"Very well, Father, but I must let the wife know. She is baking all day and our children – "

"I have no wish to rob you of your well-deserved holiday." The priest rubbed chilled fingers together. "This one has already come, and there will be others."

"Outcasts, Father. Thieves, perhaps. This stranger – is it wise? He is armed."

"He is all right. He has come, and he will stay and help me keep the Christmas vigil."

The sexton's face was skeptical.

"See to the lamps over the door, please." And as the man hesitated, the priest urged him gently. "Go. There are those without shelter in town. This Christmas, there shall be room at the inn."

The sexton trimmed the lamps outside before wrapping himself up in his coat and setting out through the storm towards his home and family.

Father Benedictus touched the lone sleeper's shoulder and stood back.

The drover came awake like a scalded cat, leaping to his feet and looking around wildly, one hand going to his holster.

"Merry Christmas, my son. Fear not; there is no one here to harm you."

"Wha – oh. Reckon I fell asleep." He was a hard-faced youngster, with tangled black hair that wanted cutting. Grooves like calipers cut each gaunt cheek and his hooded eyes probed the shadows warily.

Wild as wood smoke, thought the priest, and just as likely to vanish. "Forgive me for disturbing your rest. I can see you are weary."

"I'm right sorry. I-I heard the singin' an' I was jes' lookin' fer a place to get in out o' the cold. Didn't mean to stay here more'n a few minutes..."

"You are welcome, whether for a few minutes or for the night."

The door shuddered in a blast of wind and a drift blew in through the crack and began to pile in windrows on the floor. Outside, the Christ figure waited in the blackness.

"Will you help me, my son? I should like to set a lantern out by the statue of our Lord, for those seeking to come in from the storm."

The drover shrugged and accepted a lantern, wading through the snow and scooping out a place at the statue's base where the wind would not snuff out the flame. It flared up bravely, and he looked around.

The saloon across the street stood shuttered and dark, and the cold found its way down the back of his neck. He shivered and reluctantly went back into the church.

Father Benedictus was kneeling at the altar rail. Up in the rafters the wind made hushed little noises, like children whispering secrets to each other. The drover sat down.

 _Jiminy, how that wind is blowin'_ , he thought.

The snow tapped icy fingers against the windows. In the forecourt, the figure of Christ stretched out welcoming hands over the lantern's light.

Something crept in through the door and hesitated. It hiccupped and fell into a pew, and a stale smell of beer fought a brief battle with the scent of candles. Father Benedictus remained at the rail, head bowed in prayer.

Two small shadows slipped inside. The stillness was broken by a shrill question.

"Eddie, what's that out thar?"

"Shush! That be a statcher."

The other boy obediently lowered his voice "Wh'ar it a king? I bet yer it wh'ar a king."

"Nah. Kings has crowns an' they allus hold a stick with a big spikedy ball on't."

"Why?"

"T'wallop folks with, stoopid."

"Aw, I thought he wh'ar mebbe a king, 'er somebody import'nt." The little voice sounded disappointed.

The door swung in and closed against the snow. Quick light footsteps tapped up the aisle, stumbling over a pew. A boozy curse floated up.

"Wha' mean by kickin' me? Thisyer bench is mine!"

Someone giggled nervously.

"Gawd!" muttered a hoarse voice. "It's a wumman!"

The newcomer coughed. It shook her body and she put out a hand to steady herself, and then scuttled to the farthest reach of the middle row where the light from the altar candles could only touch the gaudy flounces of her dress.

St. Martin's had no high roof or galleries to collect echoes, but as the night wore on the corners seemed full of strange soft noises. The wind moaned around the rafters. In the darkness outside the Christ figure stood above the lantern, silent and strong, His feet and the hem of His garment bathed in the tiny glow.

Elsewhere in the town, the steeple clock of a wealthier congregation struck the hours. _On earth peace, good will toward men_. The storm outside howled to drown it, and the snow fell unrelentingly. The drover felt his head begin to nod.

"Will you help me, my son?"

The priest stood over him. He rose and followed the older man to a cupboard at the back of the church.

"There's a brazier here—I'd almost forgotten. Can you lift it?"

He carried it out into the church, the priest close behind him with a tin bucket filled with coal. They set up the brazier in the center aisle, close to the altar. The drover took the coals and deftly nursed a small fire into life. Warmth crept out, pushing back the chill, lapping slowly out in waves across the floor.

"I should be goin'…"

"Why?" Father Benedictus asked gravely.

"Well – " the drover shuffled his feet in embarrassment. "I ain't Cath'lic."

"I am sure our Father does not care. Certainly I do not." The priest smiled. "I will not keep you, if you truly wish to leave; I can only ask you to stay and keep vigil with me."

The drover hesitated.

"My sexton has gone home. His usual fee for this service is a dollar."

The younger man opened his mouth to refuse and then thought of his empty pockets. Still, he demurred. "Ain't sure I'm doin' a whole dollar's worth of work."

"'Is there none who will bide one hour with Me?'" Father Benedictus quoted. He saw the other's puzzled look. Perhaps not an unbeliever, this youngster, but certainly one with scant knowledge of the New Testament.

"I would be grateful if you stayed." His hand rested lightly on the other's sleeve.

"Sure, Father." Then, gruffly, "Got nowheres else t'be."

They sat down together in the front row and after a while the priest began to speak.

He did not tell of mysteries, or of miracles, but of his boyhood in the little town above the sea, surrounded by ancient twisted olive trees and hot Provencal fields swathed in lavender. He spoke of the mistral that tore through the mountains in winter, and of old, cherished customs. The drover listened, his head down and his hands clasped between his knees.

"Christmas Eve is for us a time of feasting. _Le Reveillon_ , we call it. After Mass, everyone invites his neighbor to supper, and it is tradition to serve thirteen desserts. My father had a bakeshop and outdid himself each year. Chocolates, and _confitures_ , and oh! The most delicious small cakes. Such a greedy child was I."

He paused. The sanctuary was very quiet.

"It grieves me that for so many, Christmas is not as blessed," he ventured.

The drover's head snapped up. "Christmas!" he spat. "Never had one. Never wanted one. Jes' a lot of jackfool nonsense t'trick kids with."

He sprang to his feet, his fingers clenching and unclenching. "Your pa made you fancy food. Mine never gave us nothin' but the back of his hand."

"Are your parents yet living?"

The drover turned away. "No," he muttered.

"Now you are alone?"

"You get used to it." Wiry shoulders hunched under the soiled coat.

"'In my Father's house, there are many mansions,'" the priest murmured. "Even for you, my son. Oh –"at the other's quick, angry gesture "– you do not think so now. But there is a home waiting for you, one where you will be welcomed, and yes, loved."

"Wish…wish I could believe that." It was a hoarse, desperate whisper.

"Reflect upon these things, and have faith. I will keep you in my prayers."

"I'll need a heap o' prayin' fer."

"That is my job, is it not?"

Outside the pale cold grey of a winter's morning began to paint the street. The drunk sat up and stretched. The woman adjusted a shawl over her shoulders and tied the tawdry remains of a bonnet under her chin. She pulled the edge of her shawl up across her face as though she was ashamed to be found there, then got up quickly and left.

The huddled boys stirred. The smaller one yawned and nudged his brother.

"Sure he wh'arn't a king, Eddie?"

"Done tole y'already! Anyways, his cloe's 'ud be fancier if'n he wh'ar a king."

"Say, Eddie, them candles is nice. It's nice in h'yar, even if he ain't no king."

Father Benedict stopped them as they shuffled out. The drover saw him press something into the older boy's hand.

The drunk shambled down the aisle, pausing at the door to make a clumsy genuflection before plunging into the cold.

The altar candles guttered in the empty church. The drover stirred the ashes in the brazier, picked it up and took it out to empty. He used a handful of snow to scrape it clean and brought it back inside. He stowed the brazier away in the cupboard and set the empty coal bucket beside it.

The snow had stopped falling. To the east the prairie sky showed widening patches of bright, clear blue.

"A fine Christmas morning," The priest observed.

"An' a cold one." The drover hesitated before asking bluntly, "Why'd you ask me to stay here?"

"Because I thought you needed it."

"What about them others? Is this place allus open o' nights?"

"No, not usually." Father Benedictus held the door open for him, smiling his grave, quiet smile. "On Christmas Eve, no one should be alone and friendless. We gave them some measure of comfort, you and I."

"They went to sleep an' then they all left," the drover said shortly. Father Benedictus looked at the statue of Christ.

"Perhaps they found something here – we can hope so. At any rate, they were warm." He coughed. "I…I am afraid I have given away your dollar."

The drover thought of the boys, and a faint grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Reckon I didn't do so much to earn it."

They smiled at each other and the old priest lifted his hand in blessing. The young man turned up his coat collar and stepped out into the new day.


End file.
